


No Polish

by duckbunny



Series: Camaraderie [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Asexual Character, M/M, Masochism, No Sex, Non-Sexual Kink, Platonic BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5672383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckbunny/pseuds/duckbunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton and Laurens, alone for the evening - well. It was bound to happen eventually.</p><p>Rated M for consensual adult activities. No sex, no kissing, no nudity. Happy fun masochism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Polish

Laurens ended up in Hamilton's room tonight, everyone else busy or away from the city, and they make a dull pair. Hamilton is scribbling away on one of his endless impassioned letters to someone he's never met, and Laurens is reading one of his more battered books.

That is, he set out to read the book. He doesn't realise how much he's lasped into fidgeting with it – flexing the spine to watch the pages moves, scratching at the tattered cloth on the covers – until Hamilton says without preamble “If you break that, I will throw every one of your waistcoats into the harbour.”

Laurens blinks at him. “That's a very specific threat.”

“If I threatened to punch you, you'd take it as an incentive. Tonight, at least. Please do not mutilate my books.”

It's said almost as an aside, Hamilton doing his best to drop it in sideways where it might not be noticed. But the point is obvious. Laurens hasn't had a go at Lafayette for weeks, not since things turned sour and left Laurens trying to tuck in his shirt, calm down, and accept an apology all at once. Not since Hamilton came shoving between them before Laurens had even found his feet, and didn't move until it was certain there'd be no more fighting that night. Not since Hamilton proved he'd been watching them closer than they had themselves, and hadn't said a word about it since, not until for once they were alone together.

Laurens puts the book down very carefully, under his chair where it can't get stepped upon, and says “And if I did provoke you into punching me?”

Hamilton finishes his paragraph and sets down the pen before he answers. “I didn't think the punching was the part you liked.”

Laurens is still trying to decide what exactly that is meant to imply when Hamilton stands and takes two quick steps across the room, looming over Laurens where he's sprawling awkwardly sideways across the chair, and suddenly it's far too late to get up and defend himself. Hamilton is caging him in, close enough to touch. Close enough that if he tried to escape, he'd only end up on the floor, underfoot. It's strangely tempting, if only he were certain anything would follow. He wants very much to know what comes next. So Laurens holds perfectly still, waiting.

Slowly, cautiously, giving him plenty of time to resist, Hamilton slides a hand into his hair.

If Lafayette was like a rainstorm, Hamilton is the tide, slow and gentle and infinitely more likely to drown him. The hand in his hair doesn't snatch; it tightens by degrees, Hamilton watching his face for the precise moment his instincts take over. Laurens melts into his grip, and the way Hamilton doesn't move, doesn't let his head fall back, just keeps him still even as he's falling – he tries to keep quiet but he can hear it, the little keening noise escaping with his breath. Hamilton is staring down at him and he tries to find some excuse, some way to explain himself, until suddenly it doesn't matter. Hamilton trails gentle fingers along his sleeve, as though he still might object, and pins his wrist to the seat back.

Laurens instinctively tries to pull away, just a little. Hamilton pushes harder, letting Laurens feel the proof of who is in control, and sets his thumbnail into Laurens' palm.

The sensation is bright and sharp and fills his world.

He's not sure whether he moans aloud. He doesn't care. Hamilton can spread all the rumours he likes, so long as he doesn't stop doing _that_. When the pressure slides off his palm and down the soft channel between his wrist-bones, he thinks he might honestly die of it.

“What do you want?”

It takes Laurens a moment to realise Hamilton is speaking, another to remember what the words mean. “I don't know,” he says breathlessly, and then “Christ, please, just hit me.”

“On your knees, then.”

He almost rolls right onto Hamilton, but he's caught and turned, his chest pressed into the edge of the chair, the floorboards hard under his knees. Hamilton's hands seem to be everywhere, moving him like a doll until he's placed right, with his wrists held tight against the seat cushion. Laurens drops his head and waits, feeling Hamilton pressed warm and solid against his side, the certainty that if this is a fight, he has already lost.

Hamilton presses his free hand flat against Laurens' back. “Tell me if I go too hard,” he says, and then he lands a quick, stinging punch almost on top of Laurens' shoulder.

It's shockingly good. The pain lingers, settling into his muscles and capturing his attention. The second punch makes his breathing stutter. He rolls his shoulders, making no attempt to escape, only revelling in the feeling, and he can hear a smile in Hamilton's voice when he asks “More?”

Laurens just nods, and lets himself be beaten. He can't quite catch his breath between blows, no matter how much time Hamilton gives him it always catches him off guard. His eyes have shut themselves, his head resting on his outstretched arms while he pants into the darkness and his ribs are jarred against the seat with every strike. The pain spreads across his back piece by piece. It's almost too much, making him choke and swear and he never wants it to stop but he needs it to stop and then Hamilton pulls him backwards and holds him, hands pinned against his aching chest.

He doesn't fight. He just lets Hamilton hold him there, while he catches his breath and tries to remember which way is down. By the time either of them moves, shame is coiling in Laurens' belly, and when Hamilton whispers “Okay?” in his ear, he just nods and twists uncomfortably, freeing himself to stand and brace himself against the wall.

“I should go,” Laurens says unsteadily.

“Don't feel obliged.”

“No, I should – You've got work to do, I should be getting home.”

Hamilton looks worried, but even his persuasive tongue struggles with putting words to this, to whatever it is they've just done, and in the end he only says “If you're sure. You're welcome to stay.”

Laurens doesn't. He pulls his coat on as soon as he's certain of his balance and leaves, and of all the things he feels he manages to say only “Hamilton – Thanks,” on his way out of the door.

Still, as he walks home, with the warm dull ache settling across his shoulders and the feeling of hands lingering around his wrists, it isn't the shame that he remembers.


End file.
